by Emily Belden
futz with it later to get the decorative balance just right, but she seems pleased with it for the moment.
“I’m putting it right here. And it’s going to stay here. And
just so you know, you are welcome to visit whenever you
want. Let’s be frank, I have no idea how to change that secu-
rity code anyway so just let yourself in. That would be fine.”
We both let out a laugh that feels like an air pressure valve
has been released. We’ve gone through an unfair amount of
heavy shit, Debbie and I, and to be able to make a simple
choice that feels right for both of us is an amazing accom-
plishment. I’m impressed by her levelheadedness and ability
to prevail in a way that allows me to forgive her for the way
she’s treated me in the past. I don’t think you can judge any-
one for how they act in those moments or how they choose
to live their life after. I turned into a crazy numbers guru. She turned into a heartless control freak. Clearly we were all just doing the best we could and this kind of clarity takes time.
Just then Sandra appears. “Excuse me Mrs. Austin, your
blue rose bushes have arrived.”
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“Oh my goodness, my babies are here? How I’ve been wait-
ing to plant these beauties!” Debbie proclaims with the ex-
citement of finding out she won the lottery.
“Go on,” I say, giving her permission to clock out of this
conversation. “Get to it.”
“How do you feel now? Any better?”
“I mean, it’s a lot to process. And I’m still not sold on Gem-
ma’s motives, but, I’ll get there.”
“I know. And I agree. You will get there. Just remember, if it’s any consolation, Gemma never came straight to us with this. She went to Brian. Right in the middle of med school,
too. Now, I know the Jackson family very well. They paid
for Brian’s education, even after he switched majors. But his
mother was adamant over lunch at Villa Blanca one day that
there were no more handouts to be given. So you’ve got to
think: this couldn’t have ever been about money. She wouldn’t
have gone to Brian if all she wanted was a payday. One look
at his Facebook page and you could see he was little more
than a broke med school student. It would have been a dead
end for her.”
My heart nearly stops. Brian knew first. That hurts.
But what’s even more painful is that Brian wasn’t actually
the dead end for money Debbie thinks he was. He just needed
to be in the right place at the right time to score: my house
in Highland Park on the night he was helping me pack up.
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Last night I kept to myself. And I truly mean myself. See, it was the first urn-free night I’ve had with the knowledge it
wasn’t coming back to my apartment—ever. I was worried
I’d feel a void or some sort of seller’s regret after leaving him with Debbie, but I’m all good. I feel confident that Decker’s
final resting place is final this time because frankly, Debbie
isn’t moving now that she’s planted those blue roses, right?
“All good,” unfortunately, is not how I feel about any of
the other relationships in my life right now. Casey didn’t come home again last night and Brian was speed-dialing me so
much I had to shut my phone off. I had nothing to say, text
or otherwise, to a person whose made a five-year hobby out
of deceiving me.
I’m standing in the lobby of my building after a walk with
Leno, scrolling through Instagram as I wait for the elevator.
One ill-timed movement of my thumb, and I accidentally
pick up Brian’s first incoming call since powering my phone
back on.
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“Charlotte, hi. I’ve been trying to reach you,” he says. He
sounds exhausted and frazzled.
“I know.”
“Then why didn’t you answer any of my messages?”
“No. I mean, I know. As in…everything. Gemma, Aiden,
you, Debbie, the money.”
“Look, we need to talk,” he pleads. “This isn’t a phone conversation, okay? Can I just come over tonight?”
There’s a beat of silence. I know the ball is in my court to
take him up on the offer, which will no doubt color in some
of these more fuzzy details. As a data person, that should be
what I want. Right now, in fact. But, honestly, I’m not ready
for all that. I’m still just…processing.
“No, you can’t,” I say. “I… I’ve got somewhere I need to
go tonight.”
I hang up the call. Lucy said after grief group that some-
times you just know who you can trust. Right now, that’s not
Brian. It’s Casey. Five years of unwavering friendship and I
owe five minutes back to her. So I take a photo of the poster
that’s pinned to the bulletin board by the elevators—the one
that says “CURIOSITY EXPO—TONIGHT!”—return Leno
to the apartment, and refer back to the image as I punch the
address into my Uber app.
I pay the five-dollar cash entry fee at the door and enter a
dingy, yellow-wallpapered boardroom at a run-down hotel
not far from our place. In exchange they offer me a wrist-
band that I’m told is redeemable for as much as I can drink.
I decline. I’ve had enough experience with wristbands lately.
There are about twenty attendees moving slowly across the
room like ghosts from table to table. The event is set up like
a flea market: each vendor has a card table and on it whatever
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they decided to bring in from their rusty conversion van that
I’m sure doubles as an illegal dwelling space.
Casey’s pale legs stick out against the ornate gold and ma-
roon hotel carpet. I spot her with a Pabst Blue Ribbon in
one hand and a rabbit’s foot in the other, talking to a mini
crowd. To see her in her element, holding the foot of an ani-
mal, makes me proud.
She spots me and I wave like a stage mom. Casey rolls her
eyes, admittedly not the reaction I was going for. “And that’s
the story of how a rabbit’s foot became a symbol of luck,” she
says as the people disperse.
“Wow, would you look at this turnout.” I gesture to my
right and left. “Pretty good for a Tuesday, yeah?”
“What are you doing here, Charlotte?”
“I saw your flyer in the lobby of our building when I went
down to walk Leno and I wanted to come check out your
expo.”
“Okay. Let me ask it another way: Why are you here?”
“I wanted to make sure my roommate was alive. You
haven’t been home at all. Sue me, I was worried.”
“I left you a note. I said I was mad. Why would I want to
be in the apartment and deal with your diva ass?” Casey turns
her back to me and puts the rabbit foot o
n the table. She bus-
ies herself positioning it, changing its direction three different times in five seconds.
“I know I’ve been an asshole,” I announce. “Sure, a lot of
shit hit the fan for me over the last week or so, but that doesn’t excuse anything. I’m a grown woman. I need to be able to
handle my business and still be a good friend, roommate,
wing-woman, you name it. I shouldn’t have tried to get you to
leave the cruise early. I should have run the script on James.”
“Justin,” she interjects.
“Justin,” I quickly correct myself. “I should have come to
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your shows before tonight. I should replace the food I eat of
yours. And most of all, I should have told you that you were
right. You were not an accident. You were not a Craigslist
rando. I did pick you for a reason. I picked you because you
were the easiest person to play keep-away with, yet still be
forced to keep me company, if only during the hours we were
both asleep a room apart. I never got a chance to be afraid of
losing my husband because he was gone too quickly. But after
Decker died, my biggest fear was being alone. Not winding up
alone, just being alone. I didn’t know who I was without him.
I didn’t know who I was as a widow. And I didn’t want to find out. But I knew I would have to face that if I was left alone
for too long. So I scoured the internet and I settled on you.
Someone I knew I wouldn’t allow myself to have a breakdown
in front of. Someone who I could feel safe with knowing you
were just feet away every night when I turned the light off
and realized it was just me under those covers. You were the
perfect person for all of that and I picked you because of it.”
Everything I’m telling Casey is true. But I’ve actually never
articulated— admitted—that’s what was going on when I signed my name next to hers as a cosigner on the lease for our place.
Embarrassing and weak as it is, it feels good to tell the truth not just to her, but to myself.
“So you weren’t just using me to get the lease because of
my pristine credit?” she asks.
“No. I was using you for your never-ending supply of La-
Croixes and spot-on fashion advice.”
“Well, thank you. Thank you for saying all that. I know it
wasn’t easy and that nothing lately has been easy for you. So
I appreciate it. And now, since we’re forming a circle of trust here, I have something kind of major to tell you. I’m going
to move out at the end of our lease. And before you go there,
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okay? The Museum of Modern Art has offered me a curator
position that starts in the fall. It’s not as interesting as what I’m currently doing with the oddities and all, but the pay is
better and it comes with actual health insurance. So, yeah.
I’m taking the job and I’m going to rent a studio around the
corner from the museum. I’ve never lived on my own and it’s
something I guess I just want to try.”
“Wow. Congrats on the new gig. I had no idea you were
job hunting.”
“That’s because you never ask me about my life, remem-
ber?” She winks at me. “So, yeah, thanks for being cool about
that, but I figure telling you now gives us plenty of time to
find you a new roommate. Or put in notice. Or—”
“Chill. I’ll be okay and we’ll figure that all out later,” I assure her.
“Did you just tell me to chill? Because if so, that was fucking awesome. High five!”
I slap my hand against her and she smiles.
“I’m going to let you get back to doing your thing. Come
home tonight, okay? The place just isn’t the same without
you.”
“I will. I’m probably not going to be able to afford a Net-
flix subscription at my new place and I’ve got to finish this
season of Black Mirror before moving day.”
I roll my eyes at her snarky reply. It kills me that she won’t
meet me halfway in this tender moment, but I take her dry
humor if it means we are all good.
“And hey,” she adds as I’m walking away. “Don’t bother
running Justin through your algorithm. I stalked him on Insta-
gram last night and he totally has a girlfriend. What a jackass.”
Back at my place, there’s the most billowing bouquet of pe-
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and they are for me from Brian, complete with a card and all.
The card, however, isn’t just a slip of paper clipped to a stem.
It’s full-sized, sealed in an envelope.
I unlock my door, and Leno lights up at my return like
usual. Before I pet him, I set the flowers and the case of rosé with Casey’s name on it on the counter. I know she asked for
me to replace just the one bottle I drank, but I owe this girl
way more than that.
Sitting on the floor with Leno chewing his toy in my lap, I
wish I had Casey’s bra-knife handy to slice open the envelope
from Brian. Instead, I use my finger. The paper cut from last
week has since healed.
Straightaway, out of the card drops a check written out to
Charlotte Rosen, signed by Brian Jackson, in the sum of ten thousand dollars.
Dear Charlotte,
I’ve been wanting to tell you something for years. But it
was news that only someone who was close to you should
share and I stopped being “close to you” after the night
I helped you move out of Highland Park.
The irony is not lost upon me when I think about us
and the fact that when I’m finally back in your life and
things are really good with us, I have a greater obliga-
tion that will wreck it all. Again.
There has never been such a thing as “the right time”
to say this. But in addition to being the strongest per-
son I know, you’re the smartest, too. At this point, you
probably don’t need me to say it, but for what it’s worth:
Decker had a son with a woman before you were ever
in the picture.
After Decker died, Gemma reached out to me on
Facebook. At first, just to say hi, to see how I was doing
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with losing D—she knew we were friends. Then, she
asked me to coffee. The first thing she said when she sat
down was, “So I’m sure you know that Decker and I slept
together once.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.
And I knew right then there was more to the story. She
told me about Aiden right after that.
Decker knew about the baby. He thought the child
was adopted by a nice family in the suburbs. But that
never happened. And when Gemma heard the news of
Decker’s passing, the reality hit her that she
was a single
mother of an eight-year-old boy whose story of concep-
tion was a complete and total lie. Every night she thought
about how the father of her child was now dead, ruining
the chance for her son to ever meet him or know him.
Clearly she was overwhelmed by her choice to do this
entirely on her own and in secret. I had to help. The only
way I knew how was with money. I couldn’t ask my par-
ents for it and didn’t have the means to do something
about it myself, so I took money from Decker’s policy.
When you asked me what I had been up to for the last
four and a half years, what I really wanted to say was: sav-
ing up to pay you back. That’s what all those ridiculous
side hustles were about. Ironically, I just donated my last
batch of plasma a week before Debbie called me about the
urn. And now here we are. I never wanted us to amount
to this: just some payback and some paternity proof, but
I don’t really know how to tie up this loose end.
I’m so, so sorry.
-Brian
A small part of me had been wishing I wasn’t so good at
playing detective after all, but this letter confirms it. Brian took the money and gave it to Gemma and Aiden. Kudos to
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him. That’s a lot of baggage to hide while just seamlessly sliding back into someone’s life.
When I left Debbie’s house, I left with more than just proof
Decker fathered a kid before our time. I left with proof that
relationships aren’t about things like probability.
Take Brian, for instance. Brian is a 95 percent match with
me, which leaves just a 5 percent chance he’d ever do some-
thing like lie or steal from me. But he still did both of those things.
So what am I supposed to do now? On paper, which is ex-
actly what I’m looking at, this is a matter of blatant betrayal.
But on the other hand, his letter is pure honesty laced with
good intentions.
I’ve sifted through hundreds of guys since Decker died,
holding them up against what I know a good relationship
looks and feels like. Honesty and good intentions top that list for me even though they are hard qualities to come by. That’s
why I haven’t dated anyone seriously. That’s why I haven’t slept with anyone since Decker.
That’s right. Little Miss Tinder hasn’t had sex with another
